Life in France seen through the round window of a straw-built grand design.

Willkommen Bienvenue Welcome

Welcome, gentle readers.

This is an everyday tale of regular folk, who moved from Sheffield to the deepest Corrèze in France Profonde and thence to the rather more cosmopolitan Lot in search of something… different. We certainly found it.

The Lot is an area of outstanding natural beauty. Reputedly, a famous TV globetrotter was asked where, of all the places in the world he had visited, he might return to. He answered, ‘The Lot’.

Fans of Channel 4’s Grand Designs will know that we built a somewhat quirky straw bale house-with-a-view here in the Lot, not far from the celebrated Dordogne river. You can read all about it in my book, Bloody Murder On The Dog's Meadow, or watch the re-runs of the programme on More 4, or view it on You Tube.

After a break in the proceedings to write a book or two, this blog now takes the form of an everyday journal. Sometimes things happen, sometimes they don't (but the art school dance goes on forever). I hope it will give you an entertaining insight into what it's like to live in a foreign country; what it's like in the slow lane as an ex-pat Brit in deepest France.

I shall undertake to update this once or twice a week, unless absent on leave. Comments always welcomed, by the way, but I do tend to forget what buttons to click in order to answer them.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Swinging The Lead

My wife is a mine of information. In the course of her
therapeutic duties, she picks up any shiny little nuggets that she can reveal
to me without betraying client confidentiality.

Last week, for example, she told me something very surprising. God knows, I’m not easily surprised about matters to do with the national
health after all this time among the hypochondriac tribes of Gaul. But this
floored me.

Did you know that, when he or she gives someone a sick
note, a doctor can specify certain hours during which the patient can
legitimately be out and about? In other words, I suppose, if Monsieur or Madame
Ixx is spotted wandering up and down the aisles of their local Leclerc with a
shopping trolley between the hours of, let’s say, 15.00 and 16.30, then it
doesn’t necessarily mean that they are swinging the lead. (Or le swinging,
as it may popularly become known.)

As an outsider observing the curious rituals of the
master race, it doesn’t take long to deduce that the French are addicted to their
doctors. Since doctors are generally in the pockets of Grand Pharma, it
also doesn’t take long to figure out that there are plenty who prefer to sign
off evident malingerers rather than hold up the queue or disturb the peace. But
surely someone is either sick or isn’t sick. And if someone is sick, shouldn’t
that person be in bed rather than abroad between certain hours?

For me, the discovery of this ‘qualified sicky’
exemplifies what is wrong with France. It’s the absurd consequence of a nanny
state gone mad. The idea a) that a doctor, a servant and representative of The
State, could specify on a piece of paper that Monsieur or Madame Ixx can only
leave their sick bed between certain hours, and b) that Monsieur or Madame Ixx
might actually sheepishly follow this prescription suggests that there is a
deep-seated and genuine social malady requiring major surgery.

I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m adopting a
holier-than-thou stance about sick notes just because I’m self-employed and
therefore can never afford to be sick. It’s nothing to do with that, and I’m
even prepared to accept that many sick notes are legitimate. But I do have
personal experience of just how easy it is to work the system. I was once
shamelessly guilty of throwing the knotted rope into the sea to determine its
depth during my 15 years in Britain’s Civil Surface. In my defence, I have to
say that I was only young at the time. Maybe it was because my precious weekend
had been ruined by a nasty bout of gastro-enteritis, or maybe it was the
dawning realisation that my one-man war on waste would not help my promotion
chances, because the only way to rise to the top in the organisation was to
show yourself adept at paper-pushing, obfuscation and passing of the buck so
that it stopped neither on your desk nor, more crucially, the desks of the
people above you.

Anyway, it seemed very unfair that I should feel fine
again come Monday morning, so I determined: dash it all; I’m not having this!
I put on two jumpers and squeezed myself into a tight jacket and ran all the
way along the Upper Lewes Road and then down to Preston Circus and the surgery
of my nice but rather inept doctor. He was a squat Asian gentleman with a tiny
voice and gold-framed bi-focals, who had better remain anonymous because I am
sure that he was doing his best in the face of belligerent malingerers and
frequent inducements from the drug companies. He had this annoying habit of
nodding mechanically whenever I attempted to answer his question, And how
are you feeling today?, and then scribbling out a prescription before I’d
finished.

On this particular day, I was early enough to be first or
second in the queue. So, when I was called in to his inner sanctum, I was still
sufficiently wheezing from my exertions and apparently running such a high
temperature that it must have seemed like I was knock-knock-knocking on
heaven’s door (if lead-swingers go to heaven). He wrote me a sick note for an
entire week. I came out of that surgery like one of those people in annoying
adverts that punch the air and go ye-e-e-sssssssss! That afternoon, I
even chanced my luck by taking the bus up to the municipal golf course for a
round of golf. Did I need a note to tell me that I could legitimately be abroad
at that time? I did not.

So I know about sick notes. There will always be a few
dodgy sick notes even in the most public-spirited of utopian societies. The
trouble is that the qualified sicky suggests that it so endemic as to have
become almost acceptable. Earlier this summer, for example, Debs and I were
sharing an aperitif with the Parisian who works (fitfully) in a state hospital.
He and his mate had spent most of July rendering the walls of the house he is
renovating down below us. He was lamenting the fact that he and his family
would be returning to the big city that weekend. Debs asked him if it was back
to work on Monday? Without the slightest shame or sense of irony, he shrugged
and suggested that he would see how he felt, because he had a long-term note
for his sciatica.

What hope of reform is there? Each bright-faced and
breezy new leader elected to the Palais de l’Élysée – often with a mandate for
some kind of change – is presumably aware of the socio-economic implications of
the qualified sicky. Yet, no sooner does he knuckle down to the task of doing
something to change things than he is de-railed by plummeting ratings.

Just as the tiny oligarchy of American zillionaires will
no doubt use their obscene wealth to stymie President Obama’s modest efforts to
tinker with the tax system, so everyone with a vested interest in the qualified
sicky will do their utmost to prevent any kind of useful reform. Custom and practice über alles. So what’s the
point? Why bother, one is tempted to ask?

The longer I live in France, the more I come to understand
the roots and the rationale of the Gallic shrug.

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Camp Street

About Me

Born in London, raised in Belfast, further-educated at Exeter and Sussex universities, I'm a professional dilettante, a family man and tireless dog-walker. You can listen to Lost & Found, my monthly radio show on www.expatsradio.com and check out my author page on Amazon.